


A Stupid Favour

by Nebulad



Series: Blessed Are The Righteous [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Game, Viscount!Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7461294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shall I ask properly?” He stood up and Marceline was fairly certain she was going to die, so it was really unfair that he seemed to be enjoying himself so much.</p><p>“I get the gist,” she assured him quickly, rising like she was going to physically stop him. He was grinning, which was good— she hated that quiet look on his face like he was helpless, like there was simply nothing he could think of to do. He would always wait until he thought she wasn’t looking to let his face fall and his shoulders deflate.</p><p>“Are you certain? I had nothing planned but I’m sure I could improvise.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stupid Favour

Marceline’s swearing-in as Viscount was blessedly short, and gave her plenty of time to try and think up an excuse to avoid the party Varric was throwing in her honour. He meant well, trying to make something good of this appointment, but they were all well aware that it was being hoisted to her so the Divine had someone to answer to when she came knocking.

“Messere?” Bran was at the door, his hands folded behind his back and still wearing the hideous mustard-yellow tunic he’d been in at the ceremony. It’d been an hour, but neither of them had changed as the office was still technically closed until Marceline decided to dedicate some of the relief effort towards the barracks. There was still a chunk of roof and wall missing that made it impossible for the guards to do their work. “Sebastian Vael here to see you.”

“Send him in.” It really was a testament to the seneschal’s tact that he tacked neither _prince_ nor _brother_ onto Sebastian’s name. She felt bad to think it, but it was a refreshing change from Bodahn’s hesitant stammering. The man and his son had left Kirkwall shortly after the explosion, headed for Orlais; they’d taken Orana with them, promising to watch over her and make sure that her new employer was kind and cut her a fair deal. Despite herself, Marceline missed them.

She sat down at her desk as Sebastian walked in, having clearly just moved from the wreckage outside as his face was smudged with dust and his sleeves were rolled sloppily. He’d offered to attend the swearing-in for her, but she figured at least one of them should be getting real work done. “Viscount,” he offered with a teasing little bow.

“You aren’t cute,” she shot back, but smiled anyway. He sat across from her, slouching faintly in a way that was very un-princely. “How are you?” she asked, reaching out to squeeze his hand. He’d thrown himself into relief efforts hardly an hour after they’d finished off Meredith at the Gallows and it worried her that he wasn’t taking time to… process everything.

“Fine. We saved more people today than we estimated we would find alive,” he reported in a voice that didn’t _sound_ fine, squeezing her back. “But I didn’t come to give you a progress report.”

“If you came to congratulate me you can shove it,” she warned him, looking down at the Viscount’s desk. It’d been untouched since Dumar’s death and it showed— half of the paperwork was still angry letters from Chantry officials about how they felt _unsafe_ near the docks. _Maker_ she would have to sort through all of it for relevance and try to find trade records— no one ever considered that they voted in a fucking Ferelden refugee whose resume was comprised of _mercenary work_ and _farming._

“I didn’t come to do that either,” he assured her with a laugh. “I was wondering if you remembered a conversation we had in the—…” He stopped, then shook his head out. “A few months ago. When I decided to retake my throne.”

“Remind me?” she asked. She tried to recall as little about Elthina and the Chantry as she possibly could, especially given the circumstances. While she was certain that she would remember any conversation with Sebastian, they’d get to the point faster if he just told her.

“I was encouraging you to make a bid for the Viscount’s seat.” She remembered, mostly because it was the first time in weeks that she’d walked into the Chantry and not had to awkwardly step in the middle of an argument between him and Elthina. The woman had either already stormed off or busied herself elsewhere, and Sebastian had been leaning against the railing and speaking with Aveline. The _sharpness_ of the memory sort of embarrassed her.

“Well, here I am. You weren’t far off the mark,” she said, starting to absently shuffle some papers into piles to give her hands something to do.

“And how did you feel about the alliance between our states?” he asked. She froze, looking up at him abruptly.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still committed to the throne,” she began cautiously.

“I am, though it is still a… difficult decision. I would never leave Kirkwall in her time of need, but this… _thing_ that has happened will have consequences. I don’t believe my cousin is prepared to face them— Goran wasn’t trained for any role higher than a lord. He was taught how to handle fair weather and when to flee,” he explained. “Though I wasn’t trained as thoroughly as my brothers, my role was already higher than his. The throne is no place for timid souls.”

“I think I’d like to meet your cousin. You tell me such flattering stories,” she teased, instead of answering. He smiled, but was clearly waiting for her response… which she was completely prepared to give, because she wasn’t a thirteen year old being asked to a Summerday dance. “Is it still beneficial for Starkhaven to tie itself to whatever’s left of my great state?” she asked, trying to keep her voice business-like.

“Perhaps not. At this point, Marceline, I really don’t care,” he answered bluntly. She tore her eyes from the papers in front of her, looking up at him and hoping she didn’t look as surprised as she felt. “Outliving two families tends to put things into perspective. Maybe I could benefit Starkhaven by marrying the daughter of a different state, but I don’t want to. Kirkwall needs my help and I know who I want to be with.”

Marceline kept a surprisingly even and calm attitude, casually reaching out to snap her quill into two pieces like any normal person would when their lover proposed to them. The gesture also put a nice little ink blot on the letter she was signing, which she was sure would delight Bran. “Thank-you,” she said to Sebastian, sounding like someone had just yanked the strings of her corset down two sizes. He smiled, the prick.

“You’re thanking me?”

“I’m just blurting out whatever pops into my head first,” she admitted, drumming her fingers on her desk in lieu of a quill to destroy. “I’m just incredibly lucky that I didn’t say my own name.”

“Shall I ask properly?” He stood up and Marceline was fairly certain she was going to die, so it was really unfair that he seemed to be enjoying himself so much.

“I get the gist,” she assured him quickly, rising like she was going to physically stop him. He was grinning, which was good— she hated that quiet look on his face like he was helpless, like there was simply nothing he could think of to do. He would always wait until he thought she wasn’t looking to let his face fall and his shoulders deflate.

“Are you certain? I had nothing planned but I’m sure I could improvise.” He kept walking closer until she only had her chair between them. “I could tell you how brave and strong I think you are, how well-suited you are to power no matter how strange the title sits right now. That I have complete faith that you are going to rebuild and restructure this city stone by stone, and that one day Kirkwall will be grateful for your steady hands—”

“Stop fucking enjoying this so much,” she hissed, pressing her _steady_ hands over her face like somehow he wouldn’t realize she was red. This was honestly such a bloody blank space in her personal experience and he was _milking_ it. She lost the shield of her chair and let him pull her closer, leaning down the quarter of an inch he had on her and pressing their foreheads together.

“If Starkhaven loves you even half as much as I do, then I’ve already won the throne from Goran,” he told her quietly, positively beaming.

“I hate you.”

“And frankly, _Marceline Vael_ has a charming ring to it.”

“Shouldn’t we be writing up a contract or something?” she asked. Her arms suddenly had nothing to do— he was too close to continue trying to preserve her foolish dignity by clamping her hands over her face like an idiot, and she was out of reasonable options. She could always touch him but Maker forbid she accidentally do anything sensible in front of him.

“Your sense of romance is staggering as always,” he teased, and all right that wasn’t quite fair. She could be romantic, it was only that he surprised her. With a little notice she could have… no, no that was contrary to the _spontaneity_ she always read was a vital part of romance. Having him make an appointment with Bran so she wasn’t caught by surprise was…

 _Maker_ she really was terrible at this.

So she did what any reasonable person would do and asked herself what Isabela would be doing in this precise situation. Once she’d very firmly ruled out _fleeing just about as fast as she can because why on the Maker’s green earth would she want to get married,_ she made her decision and reached out to touch Sebastian’s face.

There was a split second of awkward… face… touching… but she got the hang of it, trying to let go of the _analyzing_ that was happening. Only _she_ was being critical of her performance, but _he_ was also the one that had to endure the awkward fumbling while she tried to stagger her way through this relationship. How they’d even gotten to that point was beyond her, but she continued with her boldness by guiding him a little closer until they were flush.

He seemed very willing to wait her out to see where she went with this, which was obnoxious because she’d used up all her damn nerve and was now just standing there. _In for a copper, Marceline, go on,_ she told herself firmly. Isabela would have kissed the attractive man making eyes at her, and she would have kissed him well enough that he counted himself lucky to have entered the same room as her even for a moment.

As far as kisses went, she did all right. Sebastian was more confident in what he was doing, but she supposed he hadn’t been banished from Starkhaven for nothing (well, he had, but that was on his parents). “I stand corrected,” he told her, despite the touching and the hesitant and only-all-right kissing.

“You’re damn right,” she scolded, hoping now that he was satisfied that his proposal had been properly received and accepted.

“You know what comes next?”

“A swift death, ideally.” _Wrong Marceline, wrong wrong wrong. Don’t mention death, there’s been enough death and he is well aware that people have died and are dying._ Kirkwall— Kirkwall outside, with the rubble and the bodies and the sick and injured— crashed into the room abruptly and she waited to see his reaction.

“Usually during declarations of love, people say _I love you,”_ he told her. She stared at him flatly because it was a perfectly reasonable request but… he was doing this _on purpose_ the blighter. Her face made him grin and he gave up peaceably, putting his hands up.

No, no he wasn’t getting away with it that easily. She was going to be _romantic_ about it, because he bloody well deserved some romance after everything was said and done. She wouldn’t die after a little declaration (unless he laughed at her, but she figured agreeing to marry him simply meant she had to trust that he would never).

Without thinking she reached for her wrist and struggled to unclasp the red ribbon around it. It was stupid, lavish thing for a soldier, but by the Maker they’d been _Cailan’s_ army so every flight of fancy he took, they followed. “When we were in the Kocari Wilds, we were split into divisions. These bracelets were meant to identify us as part of one squad or another, to make the body counting easier when it was over. The King had one made for every bloody soldier and I thought they were a stupid waste of time,” she told him, still tugging at it.

He took pity on her and helped her finagle the clasp. “And this is yours?” he asked, handing her the trinket. She simply took his wrist and latched it on— it fit him much better than her, really, which wasn’t surprising.

“No. I told you, I thought it was stupid. I tossed it at the last minute because I wasn’t going into battle with something on my hands to get caught up and every other foolish thing. There’s a reason warriors try to avoid jewellery. My brother, however, thought it was important. He loved the stupid thing and when he was killed I took it. I should have left it with him but I didn’t. I needed… something, and I thought _he isn’t going to miss it now, is he?”_ Taking his bracelet fell just short of the top spot of things she regretted the most, the first being throwing hers away. If she’d had hers, then she would have been able to leave him his and live peaceably knowing that they were still connected in this foolish way.

But she’d been in one of her moods and so she’d tossed hers and stolen his. When his body was found, no one would mark him as a soldier. No one would ever suspect that he’d had to be dragged away from battle by his bloody ear because he was braver than anyone with sense. He would be burned and scattered in a mass grave alongside deserters and cowards, and no one would ever think to thank him and it was her fault.

So, maybe not a romantic gesture. Maybe not an _appropriate_ romantic gesture, anyway, but it was all she had left from Ferelden. Everything else had died and been burned except the stupid red ribbon that she’d stolen from Carver, and so she gave it to Sebastian— the last piece of herself that wasn’t his anyway. Her poverty in Kirkwall had belonged to the Prince from the moment the gentle fool handed her ten sovereigns for a job she would have done for free, one fifth of her goal all at once for less scrimping and begging than any other job she took on. Her rise to the Amell name had been his because it had brought them together as a team, put them on a more even ground that she hadn’t hoped to match as a pauper.

And her reign as Viscount would be his because she would steal his last name like she’d stolen Carver’s bracelet, so he could go ahead and have the child she’d been in Ferelden too. Her whole sodding mess, from birth to inevitably gory end.

It probably would have been much more romantic if she’d said all that out loud, but she was suddenly very busy trying not to cry and so she skipped it. She’d tell him one day, maybe save it for vows or something— for the moment she just sort of borrowed his shoulder because it was more decent than letting him see her get worked up. “You should keep this, Marcy,” he told her.

“It hardly counts as giving it away anyway. If you’re marrying me then I imagine it’ll be fairly close at hand,” she pointed out, her stupid voice wobbling.

“Marceline—”

“Maker just shut up and keep it, I’m being romantic,” she blurted all at once before her voice could crack. The stupid bracelet and the stupid Viscount’s seat and her stupid brother and her stupid mother and father and sister and her stupid fiancée. This whole stupid city electing her as the stupid Viscount.

“I love you,” he told her. Her stupid fiancée.

She rather liked the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) and I'm a big fan of flirty Sebastian tbh


End file.
